


Wild Things

by Hectopascal



Series: Tales From Ichigo's Delinquent Days [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Epic Friendship, Gen, Ichigo and Chad are Baby BAMFs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The transition from punk-magnet to yakuza-target was one Ichigo could happily have gone the rest of his life without making. Too bad nobody asked his opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Things

—

Ichigo was never precisely thrilled with the attention his bright orange hair earned him from the local punk population.

Nothing he could do about genetics though (and he sure as shit wasn’t going to dye it a normal color because some jerks were giving him a hard time) so he learned to live with it.

In a manner of speaking.

—

“You tryna start sumthin’, huh?”

“One warning, man. Fuck off or I’ll fuck you up.”

“Do you know who I am you little shit?!”

“Asshole motherfucker! Let go!”

—

Living with it entailed a certain amount of...call it discretion being the better part of valor.

Ichigo came home once with his face bloodied and nearly gave his sisters had a joint aneurism.

Two hours and many shed tears later, his face was still sticky with disinfectant and Yuzu’s snot. Karin oscillated between sticking ever more bandaids to her brother as she found new scrapes and soothing her twin with hugs and murmured reassurances.

It had not been a good day.

He couldn’t stop fighting because he never actually started it, but he could be more careful about what showed and that’s exactly what he did.

Ichigo got better at dodging. He improved that one skill faster than anything else he’d ever learned in his life. It was worth the painful tutorial to never have to deal with his sisters — who he was practically raising now — sad, worried eyes.

He wasn’t all that strong really. It was a truth Ichigo did his best to acknowledge and accept, but it was seldom an easy thing to do especially given his situation.

Ichigo never bought into the stupid figurative arm wrestling fights the punks who came after him liked to do. He did think it was idiotic, but he really _couldn’t_ hold his own with nothing but brute strength even if he tried.

Instead he leaned heavily on flexibility and speed, aimed for the weak points of the body that didn’t take much pressure to hurt. If he was careful and smart, Ichigo could fool almost anyone into believing that he really was the monster they thought he was already.

It helped that most of his opponents were cowards and gossipy.

Ichigo’s reputation swelled each time he emerged from an impromptu scuffle victorious. The period between fights grew longer, as fewer people were willing to challenge him without backup from their friends or lackeys.

It was a mixture of a blessing and a curse. Ichigo had more time to recuperate, to relearn what it felt like to breathe without something aching, but when he did have to fight it was always worse than the ones before.

Cowards and rumormongers they might have been, the thugs who couldn’t leave well enough alone were fully capable of learning from their brethren’s failure.

The groups got bigger and they started using weapons.

It was an unwelcome shock to Ichigo’s system. He wasn’t used to taking on more than one opponent at a time and suddenly he had to defend himself from packs of three and four.

It was a rough period.

—

Ichigo never seemed to have enough eyes or arms.

He was grabbed from behind, an arm contracting against his windpipe, and before Ichigo could kick the guy strangling him away, his arm was seized by another. Wrenched off balance, Ichigo couldn’t get loose.

Once he was caught, he was as good as beaten. He didn’t have the leverage to twist free or the space to dodge or the raw power to break their grips.

Ichigo took a punch to the stomach and had his wind knocked out of him. Then another, more chance than skill, bruised his solar plexus. And then a sharp blow cracked across his face, a gaudy but heavy ring splitting the skin.

It all went rather downhill from there.

That would have been a very bad day if not for the timely intervention of a patrolling police officer.

Ichigo was dropped like he had burst into flame and the punks ran from the officer’s shrill whistle and shouted commands.

From the ground with one of his eyes swollen half-shut and struggling to pull himself together, Ichigo watched shiny black shoes approach at a run. His face burned, partly from the cut but also no small amount from mortification.

The cop’s hands on him were gentle, his voice concerned and angry, but Ichigo flinched away from the touch all the same and, before the cop’s disbelieving gaze, forced himself up to his knees.

“I’m fine,” Ichigo mumbled, blinking hard until black spots stopped crawling before his eyes. “Thanks.”

The cop gaped.

Ichigo ignored him, inwardly debating whether or not it would be worth the effort to attempt to get to his feet. Distantly, he looked down at his hands and found them shaking with a fine tremble.

Probably better not to risk it, he decided, until he was sure he wouldn’t pass out trying.

“Son,” the cop started and Ichigo frowned at him.

The old goat was his dad, useless though the man might be, and Ichigo wasn’t entirely sure why this stranger calling him such even with no ill intent behind it struck a wrong note.

Head injury, Ichigo thought, definitely a head injury.

“It’s okay,” Ichigo said more firmly in the tone that had previously been used to shut down his teacher’s questions when they overstepped their bounds.

“It is most certainly not,” the cop shot back, undeterred. “How injured are you? Do you need an ambulance? Have you seen any of those boys before today?”

Ichigo balked.

“I said I’m fine,” he replied, eyes narrowing as his mouth pulled into a foreboding scowl. “Don’t call an ambulance. I’ve never seen them before and no, I don’t want to report them either. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

Consciousness be damned. The cop clearly wasn’t going anywhere so if Ichigo wanted solitude to lick his wounds in peace he’d have to get there himself.

Gritting his teeth against the phantom pains brought on by just thinking about moving, Ichigo levered himself off the ground in one smooth movement. It was impressive, made more so by the fact that Ichigo barely stumbled once he was up even though vertigo was making his head spin.

The cop tried to take his arm and Ichigo avoided the hand without thinking about it, taking two quick steps back. He considered nodding farewell, making some semblance of politeness, but he was fairly certain the slightest miscalculation would put him back on his ass and the odds weren’t great that he’d be getting up again if he fell.

Still, the cop had helped him and Ichigo didn’t let that kind of thing pass without mention.

“Thank you, really,” Ichigo made a funny hand motion akin to a wave, ridiculous maybe but at least it didn’t hurt. “Later.”

For a moment, the cop looked as if he wanted to protest. His eyes drifted from Ichigo’s steely gaze to the bloody knuckles by his side and then up to his attention-grabbing fiery hair.

Ichigo could almost hear him deducing, _this one’s a troublemaker_ , which was a more than reasonable conclusion to draw given the circumstances.

Ichigo wasn’t above using people’s perceptions against them and if the cop thought he was no better than the scum he’d just sent running, he’d let Ichigo go on his way with minimal fuss.

People only cared about potential victimization when the so-called-victim looked like one, looked normal.

Ichigo wasn’t normal, not even close. Anyone could see that. He wasn’t bitter about it anymore if he ever had been once upon a time. And he’d never thought of himself as a victim anyway.

The cop’s sigh was capitulating and it made Ichigo’s lips twitch in a bitter parody of a smile. What he did not expect was what happened next.

“My name is Officer Haruki,” the cop said, taking a small notebook from his belt and flipping it open. He dug a pen from his pocket and scribbled something down, tearing off the page and holding it out to Ichigo with the weary resignation of a man expecting to get nowhere but still determined to try. “That’s my extension at the station and personal number. If you need...”

He trailed off while Ichigo stared at him, dumbfounded. To his own credit, the cop didn’t say, ‘help.’

After an uncomfortable pause where neither of them moved, a muscle in Officer Haruki’s jaw ticked and he finally finished, “If you need anything, call me.”

“...Right,” Ichigo hedged, eyeing the paper like a venomous snake.

What he really needed was to get the hell out of here and whatever twilight realm he’d slipped into where cops did things like hand their contact information to shady looking kids on the street.

Said cop was watching him expectantly so, slowly, waiting for the punchline, Ichigo reached out to take the paper and, without looking at its contents or away from Officer Haruki’s steady gaze, tucked it into his pocket.

“Bye?” was all Ichigo could think to offer in response.

Officer Haruki snorted and shook his head. “Bye, kid,” he said, and then turned and began to walk away. “I’m serious,” he called over his shoulder, “anything. Or if you change your mind about that ambulance.”

“Well,” Ichigo mumbled to himself. “That was weird. Might be hallucinatin’ if I’m seeing friendly cops.”

He closed his eyes for a long minute, doing a silent assessment of what was and was not working. Then, stifling pained groans, he limped home.

Ichigo’s mood was not vastly improved when he finally arrived at his house, pale and sweating and feeling more than a bit shaky, and was immediately greeted with the unenviable sight of his father diving for him, hollering at the top of his lungs, “YOU’RE LATE, DELINQUENT SON OF MINE!”

Ichigo step-sided the flailing with an arm wrapped protectively around his ribs and yelled something insulting back. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was, things were getting kind of fuzzy around then, but he was positive it was scathing.

The instinctive retaliation in the form of a round high kick pulled something in Ichigo’s chest that was obviously not ready to be pulled because the world blinked out for a second and the next thing Ichigo knew he was horizontal on a pallet in his father’s clinic.

Isshin touched Ichigo’s shoulder in a vaguely comforting manner as he examined him in a professional fashion.

“Oh, my son,” he breathed. “What am I to do with you?”

Before Ichigo could retort that Isshin was the least responsible person he’d ever had the misfortune of knowing and that he was not authorized to do _anything_ with Ichigo’s person, the world blinked again and when Ichigo woke he was in his bedroom, clean and bandaged and smelling faintly of disinfectant.

Among the dimness and quiet of night, it seemed sorta unfair to ream his father for acting, shockingly, paternally. Lingering aches and pains aside, Ichigo actually felt comfortable.

The day could have been worse. Ichigo’s eyes shut and he drifted back into a dreamless sleep. A lot worse.

—

Ichigo’s experience with taking on multiple opponents grew to be extensive yet could be summed up simply enough.

If he saw them coming, Ichigo could stealthily avoid confrontation or launch a crippling preemptive attack. Awareness was key. But when they ambushed him, it was always bad.

Sometimes he fought them off. Sometimes he couldn’t.

This was one of the latter.

Ichigo hadn’t seen what they’d hit him with until later. At the time he’d only known a blinding pain. He’d blacked out — a truly unfortunate trend he hoped wouldn’t become habitual — and come to on the ground getting the ever loving shit kicked out of him.

Bad idea to close his eyes, but he couldn’t help it. Blood or sweat was dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision and he could scarcely _think_ to do anything past the iron spike digging into his skull.

It was the worst beating he’d taken since...hell, he couldn’t remember. Probably not a good sign, that. Tatsuki maybe, and her gorilla-like inhumane power, back at Karate for Kids.

One of the guys who’d jumped him and dragged him into an otherwise deserted alleyway yelled, “Hey, take that!”

Ichigo heard a meaty thud and his body rocked under the blow. Presumably, he’d just been kicked, hard. He should have felt that. _Why didn’t he feel that?_

The panic hit him in a rush along with another kick of adrenaline, actually soothing after so many repeated exposures, cool and refreshing like ice water in his veins.

He couldn’t stay on the ground and allow himself to be passively beaten until his assailants got tired or his body gave up and quit. He’d grab the next leg he saw.

He didn’t get the chance. Hands, yanking his shirt, pulling him up and then Ichigo was in the classic position to take a pounding. Two guys pinning his arms, a dude with dreads leering at him — the leader probably — as he drew back his fist and threw a punch.

Dread-Head knew what he was doing. The punch was solid, hard, and Ichigo’s legs gave out and he slumped in the vise-like hold but they didn’t let him go down and he was in so much trouble.

They laughed, mocking him, but Ichigo barely heard it and what he did hear didn’t make much sense. At some point in time after the fourth—seventh?—blow Ichigo lost track of where they were landing, everything _hurt, shit,_ and his ultimate plan underwent a vital shift from _wait for your chance_ to _wait for it to be over._

…the stamina on this guy was unreal. Shouldn’t he be worn out by now?

And then Ichigo was falling, knees colliding with the ground, sending a painful jolt all the way through him, tipping forward face first and he couldn’t catch himself before—ow.

What the hell?

Ichigo tried (unsuccessfully) to stifle a low groan as he turned his head enough to see what was going on and _one of the guys who’d been holding his arms was literally flying through the air._

Concussion? Most definitely. Hallucinating? Looking probable.

Then there were multiple shouts of overlapping what-the-fuck and who-the-hell-are-you and what-do-you-think-you’re-doing-asshole and Ichigo decided that no, that had really just happened.

It wasn’t the angle he was observing from and he wasn’t imagining it either. Ichigo looked up — and up and _up —_ because a freaking giant had come out of nowhere. An actual giant. The sheer size of this guy was mind-boggling.

The punks promptly forgot about Ichigo and swarmed the giant. Even, Ichigo noticed, the one who’d been tossed like old newspaper popped right back up, apparently unhurt, to join the effort.

Ichigo struggled futilely to make his sluggish limbs move so he could get up and do something, anything, even though this new guy could probably handle himself, Ichigo didn’t let other people fight his battles for him.

But. Ichigo was stuck on the ground like an insect and the giant wasn’t fighting back. He had guys latched onto him like barnacles and Dread-Head laid into him with some serious body blows — Ichigo winced despite himself — and he never even flinched, never resisted.

“Hah,” Dread-Head snorted and grinned, but it was off, wrong. “Alright, tough guy, let’s see how you like this.”

His hand reached into his jacket pocket and came out with brass knuckles. He slipped them on, still smiling that strange almost-nervous smile.

“ _Sure_ , you don’t wanna fight?” Dread-Head taunted, and then he struck.

The giant grunted with pain but didn’t make the slightest move to defend himself and that was just _not on._ Just this once, Ichigo bargained with his recalcitrant body, come on, just a bit longer.

Ichigo didn’t stand up. There was no transition from horizontal to vertical, he got his hands underneath him and without pause launched himself at the nearest leg, seizing the knee joint and twisting hard. The punk went down shrieking and the others promptly remembered Ichigo’s existence.

Dread-Head clipped him on the forehead and Ichigo was bleeding but good now. More importantly though, for one glorious moment the pain stopped entirely and Ichigo took full advantage and hit hard and fast and vicious and they were all going down like dominos.                                                                                 

There was a strangled yelp behind him and Ichigo spun around to see his new friend smack the last one, who’d been gearing up to jump Ichigo from behind, with casual strength. Scary power, no kidding. The punk dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

A second later, so did Ichigo. He lay flat on his back and stared up at a thin sliver of grey sky. So that spinning around thing might have been a not so great idea.

He took a breath. Then another. He was good. Great. He just needed a…minute. Yeah. To get his head together.

Blood was gushing from the cut on his forehead — not an issue, head wounds always bled a lot — and flowing down his face. He’d have to clean up in a fountain before he went home. His uniform was going to stain, he just knew it.

Speaking of which…

Ichigo blinked up at his rescuer, who was standing by his feet and peering at him with open worry. He was wearing a name tag. Well, that was convenient. Probably be offensive to call him ‘giant’ to his face, not that Ichigo was usually all that tactful.

“…Cha-do?” Ichigo tried, squinting at the kanji through blood-clumped eyelashes, “Chad?”

“No,” Chad said, his voice deep and heavy with an accent Ichigo had never heard the like of before. “It’s Sado.”

“You’re huge,” Ichigo commented. Whoops. “Is that our uniform?” Because it looked an awful lot like it. “I’ve never seen your face before.” And he was sure that he’d remember.

“I’m supposed to transfer to Mashiba Junior High today,” Chad explained, willingly enough. “Second year, Class F.”

“You’re my age?” Ichigo asked, disbelievingly. Wait— “That’s my class, too.”

What were the odds?

Ichigo tried to sit up. Mistake. Hoping to distract Chad from the obvious difficulties he was having, Ichigo suppressed the pained moan that wanted to escape and asked, “Why didn’t you hit back?”

Victorious at last, Ichigo staggered to his feet. “Ah, whatever. Anyway, thanks for helpin’ me.”

Chad made like he was going to step forward and aborted the movement almost instantly. “Hey, can you…still stand?”

He really did sound worried. Weird.

Ichigo shrugged his shoulders, glanced around for his bag and spotted it next to a bloody rock. Had they really hit him with that thing? He knew his head was hard, but man…

“Yeah,” Ichigo pulled himself together a little more. “No problem.”

“Really?” Chad sounded dubious. “You were getting beat up pretty badly… You’re still bleeding, too.”

“Neh.” Ichigo brushed dirt and crud off his jacket. The less evidence the better. “Don’t be ridiculous. If they hadn’t used that rock, I woulda won.”

“Are they third years?” Chad edged towards him, stepping over the leg of a punk whose face Ichigo had planted in the wall like a particularly ugly flower. “What did you do to tick them off?”

“Nothin’.” Ichigo braced himself, bent over, and grabbed the handle of his bag. Drops of red pattered against the ground. He _was_ still bleeding, oh well. “They got issues with my hair.”

Chad stared at him.

“They don’t like guys who stand out,” Ichigo explained, though he had a suspicion Chad already knew that. “It’s just how it is. Don’t you have the same problem?”

“Huh?” The staring got more intense.

“It’s no big deal.” Ichigo rubbed his sleeve against his forehead and across his eyes. “I just meant that you stand out like I do.”

Ichigo slung his bag over his shoulder and made for the alleyway opening. “Alright, come on, let’s get out of here, Chad.”

“It’s _Sado_.” There was a pause and then Ichigo heard Chad’s footsteps following him. “You’re wobbling, you know.”

“You don’t like Chad?” Ichigo was going to make it home without collapsing in a miserable heap on the side of the road if it killed him. He was determined this be so. “I think it sounds cool, like Dominic Chad.”

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“You don’t know? Then how about Chad Smith?”

Karin had told him before that his taste in music was strange, but Ichigo hadn’t believed her. He was beginning to doubt.

“Nope.”

“Seriously? You have to know Eugene Chad, at least.”

“Who’s that?”

He didn’t know it then, but it was the start of something shapeless, yet defining. Yasutora Sado and Kurosaki Ichigo would become (rather unwillingly) legends.

But for now, Ichigo kept his steady pace towards home with Chad a step to his left — was he _walking_ him home? Surely not — and, after a pause to organize his thoughts, launched into a lecture about the finer points of rock and roll because he was not about to march over a mile through awkward stranger silence.

_Here to stay, don’t’cha know?_

—


End file.
